The Whole World is Watching
by Positively
Summary: When Alfred Jones flees to Canada after receiving his draft notice, he meets fellow peace advocate Matthew Williams. But political unrest has a tendency to warp even the best of intentions into something dark and violent. USCAN


**The Whole World is Watching  
><strong>by Positively

**Warnings**: Alfred/Matthew (human names used)  
>Includes language, smoking, alcohol, draft-dodging, drug use, sex, violence, crime, terrorism, and everything else that happened in the 1960s.<p>

Also, I apologize in advance for the sap. Especially to you, **AozoraNoShita**. I hope you won't judge my overwrought romanticism too harshly.

**Summary**: It is 1968, and the Vietnam War is in full swing. When eighteen-year-old Alfred Jones flees to Canada after receiving his draft notice, he meets fellow peace advocate Matthew Williams. The two travel to Chicago, hotbed of political demonstration, where their wish for peace is twisted into something far more violent than either intended.

**A oneshot told in four parts.**

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DISCLAIMER: Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia.

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><p><strong>I. Hell no, we won't go!<strong>

The date was January 31st, 1968.

Alfred Jones returned home from school carrying his first semester report card. He was trying to think up excuses for his precalculus grade, an abysmal 75. Not that his math scores had ever been exceptional, but Alfred just knew that his father was going to have a lot to say about it: "This is why you didn't get accepted to Kansas State!" he'll say. "You'd better study up during your _year off"—_those two words especially contemptuous—"or you'll never get into school!"

But when he did find his parents, they were sitting raptly in front of the television, his mother wearing oven mitts as though her baking had been interrupted.

Alfred watched two Vietnamese men get shot in the head. Walter Cronkite's voiceover informed him that with this North Vietnamese attack, called the Tet Offensive, American involvement in Vietnam was expected to increase exponentially. Alfred watched the American Embassy in Saigon crumble under fire.

Alfred watched the death and blood and filth and insanity that start a war, are a war, tragically do not end a war.

"This is wrong," he told his parents as a soldier lost an arm. They stared at the TV screen in mute horror. Alfred was ignored. "This is wrong," he repeated as gunshots flew, and the blood that poured from wounds was black. "This is wrong. I swear to god I'll move to Canada before they send me there."

This attracted his father's attention. He turned to Alfred, eyes angry and hard. "No, son. If your country calls on you, you will answer. I didn't raise a coward, or a goddamn hippie. It's your duty..." The gore on the television recaptured his attention.

But even though Alfred wasn't a goddamn hippie, most of his friends were. And though he would have never admitted it to his father, he was beginning to doubt that patriotism was the answer; he was starting to realize the implications of a fallible government.

Alfred went to sleep and had nightmares about black blood. He forgot to show his parents the report card.

The next day his draft notice arrived in the mail.

* * *

><p>Canada was much, much colder than Kansas.<p>

As he shivered in what turned out to be a highly unqualified jacket, freezing his extremities off, Alfred wondered if he had made the right decision after all. He didn't know anything about the war, except that his father supported it and a bunch of his friends very adamantly did not. He didn't know what started it, except that very vague catch-all word "Communism;" he didn't know what it would take to end it. He didn't know who Charlie was or what the Viet Cong stood for or even how to find Vietnam on a map.

The fact that he knew nothing about the war had been the deciding factor in his choice to avoid it. Both its justifications and objectives were extremely vague, and Alfred realized that it might just be because there _were_ no good reasons. In which case all this violence was for nothing. And he wasn't okay with killing or being killed for nothing.

But he couldn't really be certain about anything, since he didn't _know_ enough, and at the moment all he felt was cold and hunger and loneliness. He had been sheltered: his family was firmly upper-middle class, with a patriarchal "Father Knows Best" sort of atmosphere. Alfred had always had simple interests, like sports and cars; he didn't care about politics, he didn't have burning opinions or a cause to fight for.

And then the doubt came crashing down on him: had he really just abandoned his country, and more importantly disappointed his father, on a whim? Because he was too dumb to understand the importance of a war? Why did he drive his car seven hundred miles from Topeka, Kansas to Smith Hill, Manitoba? He didn't even know. When he got back to Kansas, his father was going to insult him and then kill him.

But for tonight, he might as well find a warm place to sleep. The heat in his car had cut out somewhere between the Dakotas, and his fingers were bluish with cold.

The first place that looked promising was called very simply "The Smith Hill Fishing Lodge." Alfred's headlights illuminated about a dozen small cabins arranged in a neat row along the road; darkness stretched out on either side. Worried that he wouldn't find alternative lodgings before he fell asleep at the wheel, Alfred parked his Plymouth and walked into what he assumed to be the administrative building.

"Welcome to Smith Hill Fishing Lodge." The voice, which somehow managed to sound simultaneously bored and whispery, belonged to a young man of about Alfred's age. At first Alfred thought he was dreaming, because this kid's face could have been the one he saw every morning in the mirror; but then he noticed the longish wavy hair, the delicate nose and brows, the bloodshot eyes of a stoner.

"Uh, hi. Can I get a…room?"

The boy's eyes were glued to a well-beaten book as he muttered, "Cabin 14." He held out a key for Alfred to take, still not looking up, and took a drag on his cigarette.

Alfred got the impression that his presence was not appreciated.

"Is Cabin 14 actually Cabin 13? Because, you know, I'm a very superstitious guy," Alfred cracked, hoping for a reaction.

For the first time, the boy's eyes rose from his book. They met Alfred's, and something like realization crossed his fine features. He took a few moments to stare in a disconcertingly blank way before answering, "No. _I_ live in Cabin 13. Draft dodger, then?"

Though the boy's tone was free of condemnation, shame filled Alfred strong enough to weaken his knees. How had he known?

"Relax, I'm not going to report you or anything. We get more and more every day, and I say more power to you. That war is a fucking disaster. But you should have bothered to learn more about Canada before booking it up here, because that—" he pointed to Alfred's jacket—"is gonna do jack shit when the wind starts blowing off of The Soup. Lake Superior, that is."

He marked his place with a cigarette butt and put the book down. Alfred saw the title: _On the Road, _by Jack Kerouac.

"I'm Matthew Williams," he indicated an upside-down nametag mostly hidden by his hair, "and I'm not supposed to tell you this, but there's a Motel 6 just a couple miles ahead. It's less expensive, and I get the impression you're not here to fish."

Alfred laughed nervously. "No, I'm not." He really should save up his money, shouldn't he? But he was exhausted and lazy, and Matthew seemed like a cool guy, and the rates at a fishing lodge couldn't be too high in early February. "I think I'll stay two nights anyway."

"That's one hundred, then."

Alfred reluctantly parted with his money and followed Matthew's instructions to Cabin 14.

* * *

><p>The following morning shone with the kind of sunlight that tricks you into thinking it's spring. Alfred, wise to the deception, dressed as warmly as possible and <em>still<em> was not prepared for the blast of cold air that hit him when he walked outside.

Smith Hill Fishing Lodge was very different by the light of day. Now Alfred could see that behind the cabins were a large pond and a wide grassy area. Each cabin had a white number painted on the door, 14 for Alfred's, and a 13 for…

Matthew! Maybe he had an extra coat that Alfred could borrow.

When the door opened, Matthew, wearing nothing but a thin undershirt and boxers, stood in the threshold and stared. The inside of his cabin was dark and smoky.

Matthew's eyes were red and glassy and bewildered. "Alfred? What?"

"Um, I was just wondering if you had an extra coat I could borrow. It's cold." Alfred felt ridiculous shivering in his jacket as Matthew stood stoically in practically nothing.

Matthew hesitated just long enough to make Alfred uncomfortably aware of how odd he must seem. "Yeah, hang on a sec."

The door slammed and opened again a few minutes later.

"This is old," admitted a now fully-dressed Matthew, holding out a brown leather coat with black fur collar and cuffs.

"A World War II bomber jacket? No way! Where'd you get this?"

"A gift," Matthew responded enigmatically. Alfred pulled it onto his shoulders and zipped it up. By the scent of sharp, sweet wood, it had probably been kept in a cedar trunk. "Do you like it?"

"Are you kidding? This is the neatest thing I've ever worn!" Alfred could feel the helpless grin break across his face.

"Why do you need a coat? Are you going somewhere?"

"I was going to go check out that lagoon back there."

"That's a pond."

"What's the difference?"

"A pond is a small body of water completely surrounded by land. A lagoon is a small body of water that is partially cut off from a larger body of water."

Matthew stared at his feet. Alfred stared at Matthew. A know-it-all pothead? Interesting. "Wow, man. Way to be pedantic. The _pond_. Did you want to come with me? We could eat breakfast together."

Matthew's lips twitched. "Sure."

"Breakfast" was a cheese sandwich, crackers, and a carton of orange juice for each of them. "My mother packed me some provisions when she realized what I was planning to do," Alfred explained. He waited for Matthew to ask him questions about his family, the war, about why he decided to run. He expected some kind of criticism or congratulation. But Matthew just nodded, lit a cigarette, and ate his cheese sandwich.

Matthew was a quiet kind of guy. As they sat on the dying grass by the pond, he simply stared off into the middle distance while alternately eating, drinking, and smoking. Maybe the pot fumes were getting to Alfred, but he suddenly felt very peaceful and in-tune with his breakfast-mate. They were just sitting here, on the grass, bundled up, eating the same food and breathing the same air, and they didn't even need to speak. It was nice.

When the food was gone, Alfred couldn't help but ask, "How do you get to live in a cabin? Do you own it?"

"Kind of. My parents own the lodge," Matthew replied, eyes remaining fixed in the distance. "I get room and board in exchange for running the night shift."

"Do your parents live in Cabin 13, too?"

"Nope. I used to live with them in the check-in building, but when I turned eighteen I asked for a little more independence. We rarely rented out 13 anyway, so everybody wins." He held out a cigarette. "Want one?"

"Uh, no thanks. I don't smoke."

"Good for you." Matthew used his dying cigarette to light the new one and took it for himself. Alfred waited for him to cough up a lung.

"Hey, when do you sleep, if you take the night shift?"

"During the day. From eleven in the morning to seven at night. It's as much sleep as anyone else gets, but the sun really fucks with my circadian rhythm." Whatever that meant.

They sat together for a while afterwards, Alfred occasionally asking questions which Matthew answered as succinctly as possible. A bitterly cold wind blew off the pond, and Alfred drew the bomber jacket more tightly around himself. Sometimes he watched the side of Matthew's face, memorizing the way his golden hair curled over his forehead, shadowing his eyes. The arch of his brows, the long, straight nose, the angular cheekbones and rounded lips, the exact shade of his dark blue irises. He got the feeling that Matthew was aware of the scrutiny, but he just kept staring straight ahead. The moment was peaceful and content and smelled like smoky cedarwood.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Alfred went to check-in and requested another two nights. Behind the counter was a fair and fine-featured woman, her wavy hair far longer than considered hygienic. She smiled sweetly but somewhat vacantly. Maybe the whole family did drugs?<p>

On his way back to Cabin 14, Alfred noticed a slim figure sitting by the pond. Smoke curled fascinatingly around its head like the coils of snake, or graying veils. Matthew!

"You can keep the coat," Matthew murmured when Alfred stepped up behind him. He dragged on the ubiquitous cigarette, staring out over the pond.

"No need. I just booked another two nights."

Matthew turned around and uncharacteristically met Alfred's eyes. "You planning to live here or something?"

Alfred sat ungracefully and tugged the coat tighter around his shoulders. "I don't know. I don't know how to be a wanderer. I didn't expect a journey, I just wanted to get out of America. And stay put 'til the war was over and then go home."

And Alfred just kept talking, about silently disagreeing with his father, about being totally ignorant of the war, about how terrifying it was to be away from his small town in Kansas. Matthew stayed quiet through his whole tirade. When Alfred had talked himself out, Matthew stood and said, "Come with me."

The inside of Cabin 13 was dark and musty. All of the windows were covered with blankets and quilts—probably to block out the sunlight when Matthew slept—and sitar music floated into the entrance hall from upstairs. The air smelled of pot and cigarette smoke. It was all very bohemian.

Matthew walked up the stairs, beckoning for Alfred to follow. He entered what was presumably his bedroom: the walls and windows were covered in oriental rugs and music posters of Bob Dylan, Jefferson Airplane, and The Who; a dream catcher and several wind chimes hung inexplicably from the ceiling. Bookshelves were everywhere. The latter Alfred examined with some interest.

"The complete works of William Shakespeare? Christopher Marlowe? They're pretty old." Shakespeare and Marlowe were obviously Matthew's favorites; they dominated the massive collection. There were other names that sounded vaguely familiar, though of course Alfred had never read them: Pope, Locke, Voltaire. Then there were the more modern names: Eliot, Pound, Ginsburg. Some out-of-place fantasy and science fiction (including the Lord of the Rings, which Alfred had actually read). "Eclectic."

"Yes, I suppose," Matthew muttered absent-mindedly. He was bent nearly in half, rummaging through a pile of books beside the unmade bed. Alfred tried to ignore the way his mouth dried up at the sight.

"Aha! Here we go. _On the Road."_

"I saw you reading that earlier," Alfred mentioned. "What's it about?"

"It'll teach you how to become a wanderer."

* * *

><p>But Alfred didn't want to wander. He wanted stability. He wanted a home.<p>

"You don't want to leave, do you?" Matthew asked, instigating conversation for the first time since Alfred met him.

It was his last morning. There was no way he could buy a few more nights without horribly depleting his already-miserable cash stash.

Alfred said nothing.

"Want a smoke?"

"No thanks."

Matthew took it for himself.

"You know, there are two bedrooms in Cabin 13. If you took a shift, my parents might be willing to—oof!"

Alfred whooped and hugged Matthew tighter around his middle. "Thank you thank you thank you…"

Matthew didn't ask why Alfred was so afraid to leave, and even if he had Alfred wouldn't have known the answer.

* * *

><p>Living with Matthew was both easier and more difficult than anticipated.<p>

It was easier because Matthew was actually very respectful about his drug use. If he smoked dope, it was only when Alfred was working the registration desk or out exploring the town of Smith Hill. Cigarettes became an outside thing. The music, of course, never stopped playing within Cabin 13: those odd sitars featured heavily, but so did a few American artists. By the end of February, Alfred knew the lyrics to every song thus far written by Bob Dylan.

They continued to eat breakfast by the pond every morning, unless the temperatures were particularly unpleasant. Alfred would sometimes read from _On the Road, _though not very often and not with any great speed. Matthew had a new book every day, and sometimes a newspaper over which he frowned heavily. If he was in a talkative mood, Matthew would give impassioned speeches about how the war in Vietnam was wrong, the evils of capitalism, the outrageous racism in the United States. Other times, when Alfred talked his ear off, Matthew patiently listened and responded when necessary. And if Alfred just wanted to pretend to watch the pond (but actually stare at Matthew from the corner of his eye), that was fine too.

Matthew's parents mostly left them to their own devices. Sometimes Alfred mentioned them, and Matthew would sneer and call them useless. "They're never around when you don't want them. They're also never around when you need them." But overall their absence made Alfred's residence there easier, so he was fine with it.

Those were the easy parts.

The hard part stemmed from the fact that Matthew and Alfred were together. A lot. And Alfred felt like they were becoming friends, so they spent more time with each other, which led to becoming better friends, and spending still more time with each other.

And Matthew was really hot.

And Alfred kind of wanted to hit that.

But he had been raised in a traditional Methodist household and had even dated a few girls. He'd pretty much resigned himself to a life of repression and denial, because being attracted to men was just Wrong.

With Matthew, though, it didn't feel wrong to imagine holding him, kissing him, making love to him. And it wasn't just sexual attraction; Alfred was hopelessly infatuated with Matthew's passive-aggressiveness, his aura of troubled mystery, his shyness, his bookishness. It was all so fascinating. But they were_ friends_, and there was no way that Matthew was bent, too. So Alfred never even entertained the idea of confessing his feelings or making a move.

And then Arthur came to visit.

* * *

><p><strong>II. One, two, three, four! We don't want your fucking war!<strong>

Arthur Kirkland's presence in North America was a literal manifestation of the British Invasion. Born in London, he moved to the United States when he was sixteen and had been hitchhiking around the continent ever since. He took his chances where he could find them. His apparel consisted exclusively of Union Jack t-shirts, tight jeans, anarchy paraphernalia, and band t-shirts. He had seen The Beatles in concert four times, The Who twice. He was Matthew's best friend.

Arthur showed up on the doorstep of Cabin 13 just as spring was beginning in earnest. Matthew was working in the office, so Alfred answered the door.

"Who the hell are you?" Arthur asked in his thick London accent.

"I'm Alfred Jones. Who are you?"

"Why are you here? Where's Matthew?"

"I asked, 'Who are you?' You see, it's common courtesy to respond to someone's questions before asking your own." Seriously, who was this guy? And where on earth had he come by those positively monstrous eyebrows?

The Brit grinned tightly, a smart baring of teeth. "I'm Arthur, a friend of Matthew's. Why are you in his house?"

"I live with him," Alfred sniffed, starting to feel threatened by the fact that Matthew had other friends. Not that he was jealous or controlling, oh no. There was just something about this guy that rubbed him the wrong way.

"And where is he now?"

"Working."

Arthur turned on his heel and walked towards the administrative building.

A few hours later, Matthew returned to Cabin 13 with Arthur in tow. "Arthur tells me that you two have been introduced," he said to Alfred sardonically.

Neither responded. Both wore their best I-Am-Not-Impressed-With-This-Guy faces.

Matthew swore in French. "Whatever. Arthur, what brings you up here? Last time I saw you, you told me you were going to San Francisco. How was that?"

"Incredible," Arthur replied, making himself comfortable on the sofa. "The pigs have pretty much given up on the drug scene. Everyone passed out Lucy and Mary Jane in the street like it was candy. And you wouldn't believe the music they played. Every single night, you could hear revolution in the cafés."

Matthew's expression was thoughtful. "Revolution."

"The war. Everyone's fed up. The My Lai Massacre started riots in the street, did you hear about that?"

Alfred remembered one breakfast in mid-March, on a morning so cold they ate inside the cabin. Matthew had been reading the newspaper, looking disgusted and horrified. "I am going to vomit," he said, and ran to the sink to do so. On the front page: "300 VIETNAMESE CIVILIANS KILLED BY US SOLDIERS AT MY LAI."

"When LBJ announced that he was dropping out of the presidential race, you should have seen the celebrations. God, it was amazing." Arthur allowed himself a moment to look nostalgic. "Have you thought about going down there, Matt? The Protest Culture, it's out of this world. You'd fit right in." He then sneered at Alfred, obviously trying to imply that Alfred would not fit in.

"I'm a draft-dodger," Alfred said pointedly, hoping to gain some kind of respect in this abrasive Britishman's eyes.

"Good for you," Arthur replied grudgingly.

Arthur and Matthew proceeded to talk current events at great length, the two revolutionaries seated on the sofa. At first, Alfred hovered uncertainly, then left at seven for his shift as the Lodge's receptionist. When he returned at five in the morning, Arthur and Matthew were still on the sofa, smoking pot and talking about the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. "Chicago is still a war zone," Arthur was saying. "Riots everywhere. A whole week and the city still hasn't got it under control."

"And who can blame them, man?" asked Matthew. "I mean, can you believe the racism in that godforsaken country? It's the twentieth century and…god, I hate Americans. Except for that one." His finger pointed lazily at Alfred.

"Nice to see you, too."

"You want one?" The Englishman held out a blunt. Apparently he was far more easy-going under the influence of drugs.

"No, I don't smoke," Alfred replied. "I don't want my voice to end up like Matthew's, all quiet and whispery."

For some reason, Arthur found this hilarious. "No, his voice has always been like that."

"Yeah, okay. I'm going to sleep."

"You don't want breakfast? Or dinner? Or whatever the fuck it is now?" Matthew's eyes were unfocused. Arthur laughed some more.

"No, I'm tired. I'll see you in the morning. Or, you know, the night." Alfred tried not to cough. The smoke was really getting to his throat.

* * *

><p>Arthur stayed for three weeks. He was always somewhat caustic to Alfred—sans those times in which he was under the influence—but they found an uneasy balance between dislike and tolerance.<p>

Arthur talked to Matthew about a movement in New York City, Columbia University to be exact, called the Students for a Democratic Society. "There's a faction that's for progressive change within the government, and another for the radical overthrow of the system. Word is they're about to split."

"Which side are you on, Arthur?"

That much was obvious.

It became clear to Alfred around the second week that Arthur was trying to convince Matthew to come with him to the United States to join this group. "The second faction, the Weather Underground, is growing in Chicago, you know. They have the right idea—we have got to get rid of this corrupt system, this political machine that's killing Vietnamese citizens, that's violating the Cambodian neutrality, that's destroying the jungles and farmland with lethal pesticides—"

Sometimes he spoke to Alfred, though never much about the war or the United States.

"Matthew is bent, you know," he said one night, while the Canadian in question was working. Arthur watched Alfred closely for his reaction.

"Even if that were true, it wouldn't bother me." Alfred tried to quash the wild hope he felt rise in every pore of his body. It couldn't be, right?

"Oh, trust me. I would know. We used to do it casually, you know? Stress relief."

Now Alfred had to quash his jealous rage. _Don't kill the Brit, don't kill the Brit, don't kill the Brit_.

"He's refused me since you moved in with him. Food for thought."

Alfred wasn't sure whether he was being encouraged or threatened. Had Arthur figured out his feelings? Were they that obvious? Did Matthew know? Either way, he didn't quite believe that Arthur was telling the truth. And there was no way he had the balls to ask Matthew.

Another night, the three were watching the news together. "Anybody want to play Button?" Arthur had a slightly malicious gleam in his eye.

"What's 'Button?'" Alfred asked innocently.

"Short for 'Button, Button, Who's Got the Button,'" Matthew informed him. "You put acid in one of the drinks, and everybody takes one. Whoever gets the acid 'wins,' I guess."

"Oh." Alfred looked at Arthur, who smiled cruelly.

"Of course the American won't. He's too good for drugs. Or is he too scared?"

"It's just the smoke I can't stand!" Alfred tried not to sound like an impetuous child. "I'm not scared! I'll do acid, sure."

"Alfred…" Matthew looked skeptical. "You don't have to, if you don't want to. Really. It's not a big deal."

But he'd been challenged, and there was no way he was backing down.

"Oh wow, Matthew. Your eyes are, like, so pretty."

Matthew sighed. "Well, looks like Alfred won."

"I call not baby-sitter!" Arthur darted gleefully from the room.

Alfred looked around in wonder. "Holy. Shit. What's going on?" His muscles were suddenly out of control. He felt himself dissolving into a puddle, a pond, seeping through the cracks in the floor. He could feel the wood grains against every individual cell in his body. "Whoa." He could taste Bob Dylan's words, which slowed down and warped in his ears and mouth. Time ceased to have meaning.

"I'm so confused," he admitted to Matthew a few seconds or years later. His mouth didn't want to cooperate.

"Just flow with it, okay? Don't try to fight it. That's how you have a bummer."

Alfred leaned against Matthew's side. He marveled at the tactility, all the millions of nerves brushing up against each other. Matthew spoke in slow motion, and Alfred could see every word like it was written on the backs of his eyelids. When had he closed his eyes, anyway?

Matthew started stroking his hair, murmuring things. Alfred couldn't understand him anymore, but he felt soothed all the same.

"Can I kiss you? I've wanted to kiss you for a very long time. You look like an angel."

The angel shook its golden head. "No, Alfred. You're only saying that because of the acid."

He only saw the angel's mouth move bewilderingly. Alfred tried to kiss him quiet, but Matthew turned away.

The rest of the trip was an indescribable blur of color and sound and sensation. Sometimes Alfred found himself on a gently rocking ship with Matthew, breeze blowing through his hair. He could smell the salt, feel the warm sun like Matthew's arms wrapped around him.

Just as he was beginning to drop off to sleep, Arthur returned. Alfred, eyes closed, listened to his accented voice. "How was it? Did he freak out?"

"No, he was fine."

"First trip. Christ. He's kind of a candyass, isn't he?"

"Yeah. But I'm fond of him."

"Why?"

"He's grown on me. If you hang around long enough, you'll get it."

"No, I really shouldn't stay. You know how it is."

"Yeah, I guess I do."

"Want a smoke?"

"No," replied the angel, "It hurts his throat."

* * *

><p>"What happened?" Alfred woke up on the floor, feeling groggy and exhausted.<p>

"Your first trip. Did you have fun?"

"I think I did. Please not again."

Matthew laughed, and Alfred, still leaning against his side, bounced slightly with the movement. Their proximity jolted him into sudden alertness.

"Where's that tea-guzzling bastard? I oughta punch him in the face."

Matthew shifted slightly, but did not draw away. "He's watching the news. They've shut down Columbia University. The Students for a Democratic Society, that is. I think he's going down there to join," he added in a subdued voice. The words made sense, but didn't quite cohere. Alfred was hyperaware of Matthew's chin resting on his head, the places where their arms and chests and legs were touching; extraneous information about Arthur's whereabouts was deemed below concern by his hormone-crazed mental processes.

"It wasn't just the acid, you know," he blurted without thinking.

"What?" Matthew's panicked voice and deer-in-the-headlights expression betrayed that he knew exactly what Alfred was talking about.

"What I said. I mean, yeah, the angel part was mostly the acid, but not the other part. The kissing part. I mean I really have wanted to kiss you for a long time." Alfred could feel himself shaking against Matthew's arms and chest. He mentally chanted _please, please, please, please, please, please, _though what he was begging for he wasn't quite sure. He just wanted Matthew, wanted him entirely. He wanted Matthew right up to his eyebrows, to the rooftops, to the sky.

"Do you…really? Are you sure that you're—?"

"Yes," Alfred said simply, and kissed him.

Alfred had heard that when people with chemistry made out, it felt like fireworks. He'd pretty much called bullshit on that when the few kisses he'd shared with girls enthralled him about as much as a precal test. But with Matthew, it was positively electrifying. Everywhere they were touching, Alfred's nerve endings spit spark and flame and desire. His hand came up to cup Matthew's face, and he reveled in the warmth of his cheek and the perfect softness of his lips.

_This_, Alfred thought. _I need this more than breath._

Matthew tilted his head slightly, giving both of them better access, and that was when Alfred realized he must have awful morning breath. He drew away to murmur a quick "sorry" against Matthew's lips, then went right back to kissing.

After what seemed like far too short a time, they pulled apart. Alfred tried to follow Matthew's lips for a few inches, eyes still shut in bliss.

"What is this, Alfred?"

Alfred stared, uncomprehending. "Um, it's called kissing. It's when two people press their lips together—"

Matthew's dark blue eyes said "Shut up, smartass" but Matthew just whisper-squeaked, "No, I mean how serious is this? Do you just want to kiss me, or…something more?"

Taken aback, Alfred blanched. "Sexually or emotionally? I mean, I was kinda thinking of a relationship. You know, emotionally. But only if you want to. I mean, I can't just force it to mean something if you don't want it to, but I would really really like—"

"Okay, that's what I thought." Matthew settled back against Alfred's side. His back was very tense. "I've never…been in a real relationship before," he admitted quietly. "Just one-night stands, and casual sex. People like us…we don't often have other options."

"Sure we do. You just have to look for the right guy."

"Yeah," Matthew whispered, and he was just so beautiful that Alfred had to kiss him again.

Suddenly Arthur's voice floated up from the living room. "Matthew, come look at this!"

The two men sprang apart guiltily, sharing a regretful look.

"I'll be down in a moment," Matthew called back.

* * *

><p>Arthur left for New York City on April 30th.<p>

"Now, remember what I told you about Chicago. The Weatherman is always looking for recruits, so just follow the signs. Or come join me in New York."

"Yes, Arthur, I'll remember," Matthew said, fussing with Arthur's collar like a mother sending her kid away to school.

"And you, bloody Yank," he said, turning to Alfred. "You treat Matthew right, or I'll kick your arse."

Alfred spluttered and attempted denial, but Matthew just smiled. "How'd you figure it out? Did you catch us at our goodnight kisses?"

Unsmiling, Arthur met Matthew's gaze. His heavy brows leant even more intensity to his stare. "No, Matthew. I've just never seen you this happy."

Nobody was really sure what to say after that, besides a breathless "Be careful" from Matthew and a sincere (if awkward) "Thank you" from Alfred.

And then Arthur was gone, off to fight for peace.

May and June passed in a blur of news reports, heat, and cigarette smoke. Every evening, Matthew sat in front of the television in hopes of seeing coverage of the New York demonstrations. He wept into Alfred's chest when they saw Robert Kennedy's assassination: "The last good politician in that fucking country. There goes the hope of America."

Their relationship was gaining momentum, but Matthew was sensitive to the fact that Alfred had never been with another man. And sometimes Alfred got so carried away that he had to bite his lips to keep from confessing just how deeply he loved Matthew, because Alfred was sensitive to the fact that Matthew had never been in a serious relationship. It was pretty obvious that both of them were afraid of this thing between them.

In late June, Matthew began to act extremely restless. "I've never been anywhere, you know? I read all about the Beats, who just took to the streets and _saw_ the world and _lived,_ but I've never done any of it myself." He watched the news with ever increasing frequency, bought American newspapers, doodled the same picture over and over again: what looked like a bolt of lightning struck through a rainbow. "You don't have to be a weather man to know which way the wind blows," he would half-sing.

July 1st, 1968. Matthew's twentieth birthday. "Let's go to Chicago."

* * *

><p><strong>III. Hey, hey, LBJ! How many kids did you kill today? <strong>

July in Chicago was windy and confusing. The air sang with discontent: many were still angry at the assassination of Robert Kennedy, the Civil Rights Movement's best hope. Hell, many were still mourning over Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Of course everyone was pissed off about Vietnam. And, to make matters worse, Chicago Mayor Daley was a suspected crook and cheat. "Turbulence" was putting it lightly.

Even Alfred, unable to read the atmosphere at the best of times, could feel the anger and tension crawling beneath the surface of everyday life.

"Look for the sign of the Weathermen," Matthew told Alfred one day. "Looks like a weathervane. See?" He drew that little pattern, a lightning bolt through a rainbow, on Alfred's arm. "These are the people we want to get in touch with."

For about a week, the two men stayed together in a cheap hotel room. There was a minor roach problem, and Alfred became the unofficial exterminator while Matthew stood on tables and chairs, shrieking. "They're gross, what the fuck, what the fuck, I've never seen those in Manitoba, what the fuck—"

On Alfred's birthday, and Independence Day, they watched fireworks on the rooftop—"All for me!"—and shared kisses so sweet they twisted in Alfred's chest. Matthew quietly recited Marlowe in his ear, sending shivers up and down his spine. For one night, they ignored America's violent implosion and just loved one another quietly.

All good things must come to an end, however, and in mid-July Matthew finally came into contact with the Weathermen.

They were zealots.

It was obvious from the outset that these people were not to be taken lightly. "We are a guerilla organization. We are communist men and women, underground in the United States for more than four years. We need a revolutionary communist party in order to lead the struggle, give coherence and direction to the fight, seize power and build the new society." This taken directly from the Underground's manifesto, _Prairie Fire_. Their radicalism made Alfred rather nervous, but Matthew was positively enthralled with the message.

"God, this makes so much sense," he said to a young woman named Bernardine. "We've been trying to fix things from the inside for years, and it just isn't working."

"Exactly, Matthew. What we need is an overthrow. An end to this imperialistic government. Are you willing to fight with us?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. You'll fit right in."

Thus Alfred and Matthew moved out of their hotel room and into one of the apparently numerous Weather Underground bases.

There were an awful lot of people who came in and out of the building, but Alfred started to notice that only a few were invited into the conference room. Once a meeting started in there, doors were locked and residents were often sent out on grocery missions. He and Matthew bought food and toiletries together, some of the few times they had to themselves these days. Alfred pretended that they were a married couple, out for their weekly shopping.

He was really just a domestic at heart.

But July had twisted Matthew into something wild and obsessive. He planned and completed errands for the Underground with a sick sort of fervor, until eventually he was promoted to the inner Weather circle. Shortly afterward, he told Alfred that the rumors were true.

"There's going to be a demonstration at the Democratic National Convention in a month. We've got thousands of protesters planning to come, and probably more will join in when they see us. Our Viet Cong flags are at the ready."

Honestly, Alfred wasn't so enthusiastic. These things had a tendency to get violent, and wasn't that sort of defeating the purpose of protesting a war? He tried to voice his concerns to Matthew, who dismissed them with a quick kiss. "Don't be stupid, Alfred. This isn't the time to take things sitting down."

Alfred would have avoided the protests, probably, but for the fact that he had to keep Matthew safe.

* * *

><p>The date was August 28th, the third day of the convention.<p>

Alfred stood next to Matthew in a group of Weather Underground members. Still and silent, they waited in the park on Michigan Avenue. The Chicago wind was crisp and cool for what would be the last time in the weeks to come.

Policemen were stationed directly in front of the park entrance, smacking bobby clubs against their fists menacingly.

On the other side of Alfred stood Ly, a Vietnamese immigrant who was particularly enraged by the burned-earth tactics and civilian massacres of the war. She was barefoot and wore flowers in her hair. Sharp brown eyes glared with hateful intensity at the policemen before her.

"Alright, alright. Nobody wants trouble here, see? You just move along, let's keep it peaceful."

"Peaceful?" A young man named Jerry stepped forth from the crowd. "Peaceful? As if we haven't been trying that for years. As if your corrupt system hasn't been undermining peace at every turn. We aren't going to take it anymore. We are for the radical overthrow of the United States government! We are for civil rights and an end to the farce of the war that is Vietnam!" Wild cheering. "Hey, hey, LBJ! How many kids did you kill today?"

And then the group joined in, louder and louder with each repetition. Over the next few hours, groups of Weathermen and student protesters and just about anyone in Chicago who was fed up and pissed off spilled onto the streets and joined in.

"HEY, HEY, LBJ! HOW MANY KIDS DID YOU KILL TODAY?"

At this point, shouting along with the crowd, Alfred was starting to feel less nervous and more exhilarated. The sheer audacity of what they were doing—defying the government that stayed not a thousand feet away from where they stood, spitting in the face of Chicago law enforcement—was beginning to exert its own appeal. He felt powerful, important, heroic. He was fighting for a cause, a far better use of his time than mucking around in Kansas or Canadian fishing lodges. He rather wondered what his father would have to say about all this.

Matthew's grin was positively feral. "Hell is empty and the devils are here." He looked to the distance, where Alfred could just make out a Viet Cong flag rising over one of the park's statues. The cops decided that this was something they could fix, and moved as a pack in that direction. "I'm going over there."

The wind was roughly torn from Alfred's sails, his fiery righteousness replaced with pure fear. "No, Matthew. They've got clubs. Let's stay over here, okay?"

But after a few hours of chanting, their group began to march up and down Michigan Avenue, eventually halting in front of the Hilton where the candidates and delegates slept. Violence must have erupted in the park, or the cops lost their patience; the scent of tear gas soaked the air, fighting with the stench of Weathermen stink bombs and the nearby South Side stockyards.

"Get those flowers out of you hair, little girl," a man said to Ly. "This is going to be a fight."

It was early evening, and the policemen had formed a barricade in front of the hotel, a wall of Chicago muscle and flesh. Facing them were the unwashed, unslept, dissatisfied youth of America, the anti-war masses, the rage-spitting-wild-eyed-screaming protesters. As if by agreement, both sides fell into an eerie quietness.

Alfred watched as the pigs removed their nametags. They made a kind of ominous humming that grew louder and louder until he could make sense of it. They were repeating one word, over and over and over, a rally and a threat.

"'Kill', Matt," he said in hollow amazement. "They're saying 'kill.'"

Matthew's brows were drawn down, lips tugged into a snarl, eyes shadowed beneath his hair. For a moment Alfred was more terrified of him than the policemen with guns.

"Let them try. We give as good as we get."

Then the pigs charged, and shortly afterward Alfred lost all track of Matthew.

* * *

><p>It was a riot. Later it would be called "protest" and "demonstration," but those words fail to encompass the deeply animalistic violence beheld on that night.<p>

Perhaps "feeding frenzy" would be more to the point.

Policemen used bobby clubs indiscriminately and with great force; more than a few journalists suffered concussions along with the protesters. Dozens of furious and injured youths were crammed into paddy wagons, sometimes dragged by their feet, heads bouncing on the pavement. Some of the fallen had friends who tried to carry them to safety. Others lay facedown on the ground as rioters and policemen alike stepped on their backs.

At first Alfred and Matthew stayed side by side. Matthew began to chant THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING, after telling Alfred that they were the words of Canadian philosopher Marshall McLuhan. Soon those members of the crowd who weren't in the direct path of a nightstick took up the refrain.

The cameras were rolling. It was the truth.

This drew attention to their group, however. Suddenly, from quite out of nowhere, a bobby club descended upon Ly's head with a sickening _crack. _Her eyes rolled up into her head, and Alfred scrambled to catch her, but then the club came crashing down on his left shoulder. Alfred thought he heard Matthew's voice call out his name.

They were split.

Now darkness was falling in earnest, and what had before been confusion became complete chaos. Alfred ran in every direction, buffeted by the bloodied crowd, searching for Matthew's face by the dim streetlight. His heart rose in his throat every time he saw curly blond hair or the flash of a pair of glasses. "Matthew!" he screamed. His voice was lost in the cries of pain and fury. The cries for peace. "Matthew!"

When Alfred finally caught sight of him, he was locked in combat with a heavyset policeman. Alfred saw the club rising above Matthew's head, and tried to shout a warning, but he was too far away and far too late.

The nightstick struck Matthew's temple, and he collapsed like a buckling bridge.

Later, Alfred would have no idea how he managed to push his way through the crowd to Matthew, but he did. Neither could he remember the trip from Michigan Avenue to Weatherman's headquarters with Matthew in his arms, but he must have made it. Because the next thing he remembers about that night is gently dropping Matthew onto his bed and trying not to vomit in panic.

"Matthew, Matthew, please wake up," he gasped, leaning down several times for frantic forehead kisses.

There was a lot of blood for a head injury; it caked in Matthew's hair and obscured the wound. Alfred wiped away as much as he could with a wet washcloth, blood soaking through it and onto his hands. He found bandages in the bathroom cabinet and bound the ugly gash as best as he could.

He could still hear the rioters outside.

After a few hours of Alfred's frantic hovering, Matthew came to with a groan. "I am going to vomit," he said, eyes shut tight. Alfred, prepared for this, put a bowl in his hands.

"Don't go back to sleep," he told Matthew once the wretching was through. "You can't, okay? You have to stay awake. Or else something bad will happen. Open your eyes, Matthew."

The Canadian reluctantly obeyed. "Whuh happn'd?"

"You got smacked in the head by a cop."

"Fuckin' pigs," Matthew slurred automatically.

"How are you feeling?"

"You mean 'sides the blunt force trauma? Just peachy, Al. Fantastic."

Alfred giggled hysterically. A police siren began to wail in shrill harmony to the wailing of the crowds below.

"I'm really, really sleepy," Matthew admitted. "Kiss me awake."

* * *

><p>Years later, Alfred would tell this story to an older, mellowed, and (more) jaded Arthur.<p>

A laugh and a sad headshake. "That's so predictable. I wouldn't have expected anything less of that hopeless romantic. Do you remember how he used to read Marlowe?"

They share a fond smile.

"Yes, I'll bet he ate that up. A love story in the midst of the chaos of war. Beauty and harmony surrounded by evil and violence. How predictable."

* * *

><p>"That was good, but it wasn't enough," Bill told Matthew a week later. Both wore matching head bandages. Alfred, banished to the corner, had a brace for his shoulder.<p>

"What next?"

"A friend of mine is writing a book called the Anarchist's Cookbook. We're going to take a few recipes of his and use them on the draft offices around here, got it?"

"After hours?"

"Of course," Bill replied nonchalantly.

When Bill left the room, Alfred turned to Matthew.

"This is wrong."

"What?"

"You heard me. We're advocates of peace, aren't we? It's wrong for us to be starting riots and blowing up buildings. And don't even try to tell me that's not what Bill was just talking about. I've been watching the news. They did the same thing in New York. This is wrong. It's not freedom-fighting, it's _terrorism_."

"Alfred," Matthew said soothingly. "Alfred. Don't be naïve. Nobody's going to get hurt, okay? Don't jump to conclusions, and don't act too rashly." He crossed the room to kiss Alfred lightly on the cheek, the brow, the tip of the nose. "And remember. This war is worth it."

Despite Matthew's reassurance, Alfred was skeptical.

And why shouldn't he be? Why shouldn't he think for himself, like all these "freedom-fighters" were always demanding of the public? Well, he'd thought about it long and hard, and came up with a single conclusion.

"This is wrong." He stood in the center of a gathering of about twenty Weathermen. They stared at him. "We can't fight violence with more violence. It doesn't work that way."

"Alfred," Matthew hissed through his teeth. "Sit down."

"No, I won't. Don't you get it? We've become like them!"

"People who make peaceful revolution impossible only make violent revolution inevitable. Don't _you_ get it? Nixon is running for president, Alfred, and he's come out and said that he doesn't give a damn about what we say! So if we can't say anything, we have to _do _something! The time for polite protestation is over." Matthew's lovely features were contorted with fury. Alfred felt his heart twist at the sight.

"No. You're thinking like them. You've become them. You can't literally fight a war for peace."

"So what? We wait for them to solve it with politics? And thousands more die everyday in Vietnam and we just sit by and watch?" Bill, who had taken leadership of Weatherman now that Jerry was a fugitive, was wildly popular with the group. They cheered him on.

"What's the point of sticking to our principles when all it does is cripple our cause?"

Alfred's face was gray with horror now.

"You mean don't know?" he said.

The Weathermen looked at him curiously.

"You don't _know_?"

* * *

><p>Alfred packed his carpet bag haphazardly, not that he had brought many possessions from Canada, or even before that from Kansas. Shirts, pants, socks, underwear. A toothbrush. At the bottom of the bag were Matthew's bomber jacket and his copy of <em>On the Road<em>, which Alfred had never finished.

Trying not to weep, scream, or throw things, Alfred shrugged on the coat and zipped it up. For old time's sake. He began to take it off, but was interrupted by a voice.

"I told you that you could keep it," Matthew said softly from behind him. He didn't sound angry, but perhaps melancholy. Regretful. Also, distracted.

"No, I can't take it." He half-lifted the jacket over his head to prove the point, fully prepared to return it. Matthew caught his hand. Alfred had to look up to meet his eyes, those beautiful deep eyes. He could have counted every ash-blond lash that framed them. Despite the circumstances, his body reacted with a thrill at their proximity.

"What?" he asked irritably, though it was really just to cover up his panic and hurt.

Matthew smiled. "Keep it," he said, and his voice was low and quiet and careful, the way he'd always talked to Alfred when it wasn't about the war. Alfred hated that he couldn't resist this voice, this tone, this damned Canadian zealot. But he took the coat anyway.

"I think you'd better leave, Alfred."

"I know. Matthew…I know you don't want to hear this, but—"

Matthew turned away, hiding his face.

"I think you'd better leave."

* * *

><p><strong>IV. Journeys end in lovers' meeting<strong>

Alfred was lost.

He hadn't finished _On the Road, _and he honestly couldn't bring himself to do so now. So he didn't know how to wander. He was stuck.

At first he tried to go back to his first home, via Greyhound bus. When he showed up on his parents' doorstep, his mother shrieked with joy. His father slammed and locked the door, but not before saying, "I never want to see your goddamn coward face on my property again."

After that, Alfred became a stowaway on a train bound for Montana, where he met a single lumberjack working in the Rocky Mountains. He was given room and board in exchange for some manual tasks like hauling wood. Despite the general sense of unease and loss he felt during this time, Alfred allowed himself a vain pride in the healthy tan and muscle tone that the job gave him. When he wasn't working, he checked out Shakespeare and Marlowe from the library. He read them cover to cover.

September passed, and Todd (the lumberjack) criticized the Women's Movement from his living room couch. Alfred, sitting next to him, found the Liberationists clever and righteous, though he wisely refrained from saying so. Once he even thought he saw Ly at a Miss America protest.

October was Nixon vs. Humphrey vs. Wallace. Alfred felt pathetic because politics had become a source of nostalgia for him.

When Nixon won the presidency on November 5th, it was like the floodgates had opened. After three months of doing nothing but trying to focus on other things, all Alfred could think about was Matthew. Politics? Matthew. Literature? Matthew. Romance? Matthew Matthew Matthew. It was cold enough that he had to wear his bomber jacket everywhere, and the sweet sharp scent of cedarwood burrowed into his every thought.

Eventually, he gave up and returned to Chicago.

Alfred tried to rent a room at the hotel he and Matthew had lived in for that blissful week, but it had been condemned. He checked the old Weatherman headquarters, which still had the weathervane symbol graffitied on the wall, but it seemed to have been abandoned.

He went to the Chicago Park across the street from that turbulent Hilton, and saw a slim figure sitting on a pondside bench, smoking. It had longish wavy hair and Alfred's face.

He approached Matthew warily. Matthew's head was cradled in his hands. "Want a smoke?"

"Yes, please."

"Wrong answer." Matthew stubbed out the one in his hand and tossed the rest of a pack into a nearby trashcan. He did not meet Alfred's eyes.

"I was wrong." Matthew resumed his hunched position, face parallel to the ground.

"Matthew..." Alfred reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder.

Matthew shrugged it off. "No. I was wrong, okay? I realize now. We were wrong. Alfred, I'm so sorry."

"You were overzealous. Your ends were noble, but your means..."

"Oh god, I hate Machiavelli even more than I hate Nixon."

Alfred had never heard of Machiavelli, so he just shrugged. "Matthew, will you look at me?" The Canadian did so, guilt and insecurity written clearly across his face. Alfred nearly wept, it was so beautiful. His eyes traced the nose, the delicate brow, those soft lips he'd touched with his own so many times before…

"I'd really like to kiss you," he admitted.

"Does that mean you want me back?" Hope warred with disbelief in Matthew's tone.

"Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall."

"You've been reading up on your Shakespeare, then."

"Yeah. I was looking for you."

"Well, if that's the case," Matthew stood and faced Alfred, so close their noses touched. "If that's the case, then I think you've already fallen."

* * *

><p>The date was December 31st, 1968.<p>

Alfred and Matthew were renting an apartment together in New York City, just across from the Stonewall Inn. Neither had college degrees, so they weren't exactly swimming in prosperity; but they did well enough to get by, and in a gay neighborhood to boot.

Instead of trekking out to Times Square, as so many did on this night, they'd decided to stay in bed and watch the ball drop on TV. "It won't be as impressive," Matthew allowed, "But at least I won't get stampeded to death by the crowds."

Before the coverage of Times Square began, NBC flashed pictures of Earth taken from Apollo 8. "Earthrise," Alfred marveled softly. "Look at that. The whole world, right there."

"Home," Matthew agreed. He snuggled tighter against Alfred's chest. "For all of us."

"All of us," Alfred repeated.

When the countdown began, Alfred reviewed the year in his head. From Vietnam to Kansas to Canada to Chicago to Montana to New York. He could trace the lines of his destiny, alternate paths he could have taken, but the only one that mattered was the one that led him to this spot, right here, safe in Matthew's arms.

_I love you_, he mouthed against his neck. Matthew snickered—he was ticklish there—and then pushed Alfred away. "Ooh! We have to share the first kiss of the New Year when the ball drops, you know the tradition."

_5, 4, 3, 2, 1…_

"I love you," Matthew whispered, a millisecond before 1969.

* * *

><p>It lasts a lifetime.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> See why I warned you about the sap? /shame/ Anyway, I love love love la-la-love the nineteen-sixties. All of the history in this fic, particularly the Democratic National Convention, is based on the actual events of 1968. The first three bolded titles are slogans used at war protests (the fourth is a Marlowe quote). However, I must note that there are some historical discrepancies included for the sake of moving the plot along, most notably the fact that the Weatherman bombings weren't really a problem until the seventies. Also, my knowledge of hippie culture is limited to modern interpretation; I would appreciate any corrections and improvements.

P.S. Those of you who know your gay rights history can probably guess what Matthew and Alfred will be doing next! As for the rest of you, go Wikipedia the Stonewall Riots.

Please review!


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